Mores Parentis
by dog.spartacus
Summary: Tag for 19x4, "No Good Reason." A short conversation between Olivia and her attorney regarding potential character witnesses, in anticipation of a custody battle. One-shot.


A/N: I caught 19x4 late but wanted to write something for it before 19x5 aired. No real spoilers. The title of this one-shot was inspired by the legal term _in loco parentis_ and translates from the Latin roughly as "the behavior of a parent." All reviews welcome. (Please note that the story is complete as written.)

Disclaimer: These characters are _so_ not mine.

* * *

" _Mores Parentis_ "

"You can't call him."

"Liv, I have to." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, as if she should already know.

"No," she insists, shaking her head as she takes a few steps closer to her desk. "Hm-mm."

"It'll look bad if we don't."

"But he doesn't have anything to do with any of this!" she exclaims, viciously rounding on Langan as if this really were his fault.

He's cool as ever, though, and he just sits there in his chair while she paces. "If they're going after who you are," he tells her, "you'll need character witnesses."

Olivia looks desperately through her office window into the bullpen. "Fin!" she announces with triumph. "He's known me just as long."

"Great. Now can you give me someone who _isn't_ under you in a chain of command?" Langan asks flatly.

She ignores his jab and thinks for a fraction of a moment until the epiphany strikes: "Cragen."

Langan is unmoved. "I'm calling him, too—of course—but face it, no one knows a cop better than their partner."

"Then Nick," she says.

"And let everyone wonder why we flew someone in from California instead of just going to Jersey?"

Olivia frowns. _Jersey_?

"Our luck," Langan continues, "they'd call him themselves just to find out. And I don't know what it is you're scared he'll say, but imagine not hearing it until it's on the official record. Now I like you, Liv, and I like our odds, but I don't gamble when I don't know the game."

A moment passes, and Olivia stills. "Trevor, what if I _am_ unfit?" she quietly asks.

She glances at him in time to see his entire body change with the shift in mood. His lean, lanky form had once comfortably overflowed the chair with a jumble of angles, but now he's retracting his extended limbs, readying himself for an onslaught. "Is that what you think he'll say?"

"No," she huffs, practically laughing at the absurdity of the idea.

"Then what's this about? You're a great mother." She sees him relax a little.

"I'm not afraid of what Elliot might say. I'm afraid of what he'll _think_."

Langan waits for her to explain, prompting her with raised eyebrows. When she doesn't continue, he admits, "I don't follow."

"I haven't talked to him since he left."

Langan seems to consider that for a moment. "Your doing or his?"

"Both. So what does it say about me that the first time I reach out to him in seven years is because I need a favor?" She draws and releases a shuddering breath.

"I don't think it says anything except: you need a favor."

"You know, he told me once that he couldn't do his job because he was always having to watch out for me. If I ask for his help..."

Langan shrugs. "Yeah? Who's wearing the gold bar today?"

She sighs and tries to smile in gratitude for his tacit encouragement, but another niggling doubt rears its head. "I don't have friends outside of work," she confesses. "And apparently I can't maintain friendships, even the closest ones, once that work dynamic changes. Is that healthy? Is that balanced—is that 'fit'? Doesn't feel that way."

The attorney shifts in his seat. Poor guy has already been there for thirty minutes, and—bless him—he's only stayed this long because she's unraveling right in front of him. "Okay, so, you take this as an opportunity to reestablish that friendship—if that's what you want. But don't make this bigger than it is: losing touch with someone does not make you an unfit parent. You understand that, right? And asking an old friend for a favor like this doesn't make you weak or needy or fair-weathered."

"I was angry and I was hurt, and instead of confronting that—and him—I just ignored it. That's not emotionally healthy, is it?"

"Olivia, I'm not a therapist, and I can't pretend to be one," he finally says, holding up his hands in surrender. "And I don't know what happened between you and Stabler, and I don't care—because it doesn't change the fact that you are an incredible woman, and you're the best mother for Noah, plain and simple. That's what matters. And we're going to make damn sure the court sees it that way. A'right?" She makes a noise of noncommittal agreement, and he briskly sweeps something off his knee before moving to stand. "I hate to run, but I have a three o'clock in midtown," he tells her.

She only nods and doesn't find her voice until he nears the door. "Thank you. Really. For everything."

"Of course," he replies with a faint smile, his eyes fluttering closed, and she feels some of her own tension evaporate. He pauses, however, with his hand on the doorknob. "Word of advice, though? Give the guy a buzz before the subpoena gets there."

She laughs a little, and he grins at her before yanking the door open. "Now, you said he's in New Jersey?" she asks before he can escape.

Langan lets the door swing halfway closed. "Yeah, a little town on Long Beach."

Olivia frowns again. "No, that's some mistake. His mother lives there. _He's_ out in Queens. Glen Oaks."

Langan frowns back a little in response and shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. He updated his address in the NYPD volunteer database about two years ago."

"'Volunteer'? Now I _know_ it's wrong," she jibes.

He smirks. "It's the retiree network and online database."

She nods. "Yeah, I know. Thanks."

He nods in return and takes a step towards the bullpen before pausing. "His number's the same, though," he offers over his shoulder.

For some reason, it knocks the breath out of her. "Okay," is all she can say.

Langan leaves, closing the door behind him. Silence falls in the lieutenant's office. Sinking into her desk chair, Olivia loses herself in thought about Elliot, about Noah, about Sheila Porter. About missed opportunities, about second chances. She is startled from her somber reverie by the robotic trill of her desk phone. It's a courtesy call to confirm her month-end crime stats meeting with the Chief of D's, but even the brief interruption is enough to spur her to action.

She picks up the phone again, and then a thought hits: she decides to do some research before she accidentally puts her foot in her mouth. It's a little morbid, but she searches the Internet for an obituary for Bernadette Stabler. Finding none, she takes a breath, lifts the receiver, and dials a number by muscle memory.

 _-fin-_


End file.
